


Don't You Want to Feel (what I want to feel?)

by flashindie



Category: Gossip Girl
Genre: F/F, F/M, Loss of Virginity, Love/Hate, Roleplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-17
Updated: 2013-02-17
Packaged: 2017-11-29 16:07:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/688858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flashindie/pseuds/flashindie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You’re hardly the swooning virgin,” Blair says in the end, because Serena isn’t, and because the best line of defense is offense, no matter what Blair’s psychiatrist says. “Look, why are we even talking about this?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Don't You Want to Feel (what I want to feel?)

**Don’t You Want To Feel (What I Want To Feel)?**  
Gossip Girl. Blair/Serena. R. 

Serena tells her about Lily and Rufus’ lists somewhere between Chuck being wrong for her and why Dan’s a _greatsmarthot_ guy, no really, he is. Blair pauses, blinks, “What? They wrote lists?”

Serena pauses in the middle of some story about Poppy getting wine on her borrowed Dior gown, blue eyes stilted and Blair almost has to curse herself out for being this far behind. “That’s what I said. My mom totally slept with Slash, how gross is that?” She leans back a little as she says it, takes another spoonful of berry yoghurt and Blair can’t help but scrunch her nose up when Serena almost drips some of it on her Egyptian cotton sheets. 

When Blair sighs, it’s dramatic, followed by a painted on a smile. She shakes her head a little, can’t stop herself as she says, “Gross, but hardly surprising, S.”

Serena arches an eyebrow, drops her empty yoghurt cup onto Blair’s bedside table, between her lamp and the book she’s been reading (Austen’s _Emma_ , even if she’s read it too many times, because Blair is nothing if not well-versed in the classics).

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Oh come on,” Blair says, and she rolls her eyes, slides off the bed and wanders over to her wardrobe. She pulls out one of her new Vera Wang dresses, holds it up against herself as she looks into the mirror. “The Van Der Woodsen women are hardly known for keeping their legs shut.” And Blair, she promised herself she would stop; these spiteful little comments are what get her into trouble really. She ignores the hurt that flashes over Serena’s too-perfect features, (always), says, “So, Vera or Anna Sui for Beth’s charity ball?”

&

“I’m not a slut,” Serena says, and Blair rolls her eyes, forces a smile at some rich, pretty boy with James Dean’s eyes and Fred Astaire’s fashion sense (shame he’s such a bore) and says, “I won’t be a minute,” before gripping Serena’s narrow elbow and pulling her down the hall.

“God, S, inappropriate, much?” She doesn’t mention that that’s probably a stupid question given that, well, it _is_ Serena. 

“I’m not,” Serena says again, and Blair folds her arms over her chest, fakes a smile that she knows Serena will be able to see right through, just because she knows that it’ll upset her more than any scoff or put-down could. Serena doesn’t say anything though, her forehead creases and her eyes are watery in that way that reminds Blair of nights out with Georgina and boys that Blair couldn’t chase away. It’s dumb, and it _hurts_. 

“You’re hardly the swooning virgin,” Blair says in the end, because Serena isn’t, and because the best line of defence is offence, no matter what Blair’s psychiatrist says. “Look, why are we even talking about this?” 

It’s a while before Serena responds, same dumb cow eyes that Blair can’t ever meet, and when Serena says, “We’re meant to be something, whatever that is, I just --” she clenches her eyes shut. “I can’t go to bed with you when you think that of me.”

And that, fuck, that does _something_ , hits somewhere too close to Blair’s head and her heart and probably that stupid abandonment complex that Blair thought she’d buried. 

“Then don’t come to bed with me,” she says, and the noise Serena makes is stupid and obvious and the same sort of heartbroken that she was when they fought when they were little, because Serena will spread her legs for anyone, but that doesn’t mean she ever lost the part of her that was four years old. 

When Blair opens her eyes again (hadn’t realised she’d closed them), Serena’s gone and Blair sighs, dramatic for an audience that isn’t there, takes a minute, composes herself, and heads back into the party.

&

Later that night, Serena climbs in through the window just as she did when they were little, crawls into bed beside Blair and Blair doesn’t stir, but she doesn’t pretend to be asleep either. Serena doesn’t say anything, but Blair can feel her heartbeat when she presses against her back, and definitely doesn’t think of words like _home_.

&

“I don’t want to make a list,” Serena mumbles, and Blair rolls her eyes, flips through her Yale catalogue again and says, “No shit, S. I don’t think I want to see that.”

Serena doesn’t so much as huff, but when she says, “You’re hardly flawless, B. I mean, Chuck _and_ his uncle, that’s all class,” it’s the Serena from before boarding school, enough of that pretty face but with the same defensive bite that Blair’s never been able to shed.

Blair snorts, “My boyfriend, S? That’s got to take the cake,” because it still hurts, even if Blair doesn’t care anymore (she _won_ after all. Nate can be in love with Serena for as long as he likes, but Serena belongs to Blair, foreverandeverandever).

Serena doesn’t say anything, finally just rolls her eyes and leans back against the headboard of Blair’s queen-size bed. “How can I fix this then?” she asks finally, eyes shut and voice soft, light. “You want me to pretend to be a virgin?” and it’s almost mocking, teasing, but Blair blanches, because, _okay_ , okay, “Yeah, alright.”

Serena blinks, “I was joking.”

Blair paints on a smile, does that head tilt that works on people that aren’t Serena. “I wasn’t. You should know better than to make suggestions you can’t follow through on, S.”

It’s dumb, and Serena grins, but it’s hesitant, uncertain, and Blair’s not sure if she likes it or not. Serena finally she just shrugs, says, “Whatever, B,” and picks up the issue of _Vogue Italy_ lying on the floor, lets it go after a second and grabs her bag instead.

“Night, Blair,” she mumbles, and she leaves, and Blair figures the topic’s probably been dropped.

&

When Serena rings that evening, Blair ignores the call. She watches _My Fair Lady_ instead, and tries not to think of Serena, still beautiful, tall, naked, in her bed, and not all used up in a way that Blair won’t ever be able to fix.

&

Blair doesn’t particularly want to go to school, but staying home would be conceding defeat in a battle Blair doesn’t know the purpose of (or the prize), so she goes, sits in class and isn’t sure whether it’s triumph or defeat burning in her chest when Serena doesn’t show up.

It doesn’t matter though, she tells herself, because Serena’s probably with Dan Humphry’s, being ogled, felt up, touched, _fucked_. There’s a limo waiting for her outside the school grounds, and she’s home before class is over, fingers twisting in her bag strap, and when she pushes open her bedroom door, ready to destroy someone, anyone, it’s Serena there, on her bed and in uniform. She doesn’t even wait for Blair to say something, not now, just says, “I can’t be anything other than what I am, Blair. I know I’ve made mistakes.”

Blair’s not one to let go of her aggression, anger, hostility, so she says, “No shit,” pulls off her coat, moves towards her closet. She can see Serena in the mirror this way, see the way she bites her lip, shoots wide, doe eyes at Blair’s back and Blair wonders, not for the first time, when the hell they got to this point. 

It’s a second before Serena’s desperation turns into something deliberately coy, until she’s pushing back up against the head of the bed and pulling her knees back against her chest. Blair’s hated (loved) Serena’s effortless beauty since they were twelve, when Serena’s always-pretty face turned into something too close to perfect, and she hates these moments when it’s all too obvious that Blair’s maybe been in love with her since they were old enough to love in the first place. 

“I’m just nervous,” Serena says suddenly, voice low and light, and she bites her lip pointedly, rubs at her arm, “I mean, I’ve never done this before,” and Blair arches an eyebrow, blinks, says, “What are you talking about, S?” 

Serena flushes deliberately, looks down at the sheets and then back up at Blair through her lashes, “It’s just – you know, I mean – “ and she looks at her pointedly, almost smiles when she sees Blair pick up on it.

Blair just tilts her head, gives Serena a disbelieving look, “Oh, come on, S, I was joking.”

Serena’s back to her old self in an instant, falling back against the headboard and laughing that stupid, four-year-old thing. “It didn’t sound like it the other day,” and Blair rolls her eyes, watches as Serena falls down into the bed, grin wide. It’s a second before Serena’s losing the light in her eyes, face, mouth, and when she says, “Whatever you want, Blair, that’s what this is, alright?” it’s a lot softer, more serious. 

It’s a few minutes before Blair can bring herself to move, sit on the edge of the bed and say, “Your first time needs to mean something,” and Serena grins before widening her eyes a little, pursing her lips and saying, “Did yours?”

“Yes,” Blair says automatically, “Did yours?” 

And Serena sighs, falls out of character, and says, “All my times mean something, B. I know you don’t believe me, but—“ and Blair leans in, kisses her, because Serena’s perfect. Serena will always be the light bulb and Blair will always be one of the moths, no matter how much she wants to be the light switch. 

“Oh, _Blair_ ,” Serena says, and she sighs dramatically, elaborately, her grin wide against Blair’s lips, and it’s dumb, but Blair figures that if Serena’s this insistent, she may as well play along.

Blair leans back, lets her eyes trail Serena’s lips, down her neck, before back at her face, she can’t suppress the smirk. She doesn’t say anything, doesn’t need to, and Serena leans forward, says, “You’ve got to be gentle, okay?” 

“Yes,” Blair mumbles, and Serena’s smile this time is genuine, loose and easy around the edges, and Blair leans in again, lets her hand rest on the groove of Serena’s waist, right where her ribcage ends. It’s soft beneath her fingers, perfect, and Blair bites at Serena’s neck, twists her fingers in the hem of Serena’s sweater and tries not to be distracted by the way Serena palms at the back of her neck.

Serena’s always been easy to push around, to move, invites it, but she’s almost hesitant like this, delicate, and Blair wonders if Serena was like this when she lost her virginity for real (if she was like this with _Dan_ ), and she has to push those thoughts out of her head before she can dwell, before she ruins everything again. Serena’s fingers are on the buttons of Blair’s school shirt and Blair swats them away, reaches instead for the hem of Serena’s skirt, pushes it up her thigh and can’t help but be surprised with the way Serena shies away. “I’m not sure, Blair,” Serena mumbles, and it takes Blair a minute to remember the game, the role play, whatever.

Blair doesn’t say anything, just pulls her hand away and then up beneath Serena’s shirt instead, revels in the gasp, and kisses away the protests. She lets Serena fall back, hair splayed on the sheets, and her eyes are wide, smiling, and Blair can’t stop the grin pulling at her own lips, has to hide it, so she nips at Serena’s collarbone instead, thinks that in another world, another time, this could’ve been real. Serena’s virginity wouldn’t be painted on like a mask or slipped on like gloves, like a McQueen gown, and Blair would be her everything, like Serena is in Blair’s right now.

“You’re so beautiful,” Blair mumbles, can’t help herself, and Serena’s flush this time is for real, she never knows how to take praise, but, then again, neither does Blair. Not when it’s for real.

She undoes the buttons of Serena’s school shirt, slips her fingers into her bra and rubs her thumb over the nipple, relishes Serena’s tremor, shiver, licks at her collarbone just to feel Serena arch into the touch. “Please, B,” Serena mumbles, eyes half-lidded, gentle, and Blair doesn’t say anything, because she hates talking during sex. Doesn’t think words deserve this, doesn’t think anything deserves Serena. 

She shoves Serena’s panties aside, and pushes a finger into her, watches her arch, beg, and Serena’ s not a virgin like this, maybe never was, because she’s been hypo-sexual since they were pre-pubescent, has been a wet dream for whoever saw her, and Blair can’t help but think _mine_. 

“Come on, B,” Serena mumbles, and Blair smiles too easily, leans up over Serena and kisses her whilst she fucks her, and when Serena comes, it’s the sort of stupid-perfect that Blair’s always sort of wanted.

&

Serena always falls asleep after she’s gotten off, and this is usually when Blair gets up, moves away, gets dressed and goes and finds Chuck and gets herself fucked into oblivion. Blair figures she probably loves Chuck, but she’s _in_ love with Serena, and hurting Chuck is easy (sometimes even fun), but hurting Serena is just a buzzkill. Painful, and Blair needs her out, needs to know that she can go out and be _mean_ and Serena will still be here, naked and perfect in Blair’s too-big bed.

Only this time, Serena’s watching Blair slip into clean clothes, is whispering, “Stay,” as Blair moves out. Blair shakes her head, holds the door open just enough that the light from the hall splays over Serena’s face, over her naked chest. “Later, S. Go back to sleep.”

“Please, Blair,” Serena murmurs, voice low, hoarse, and Blair’s feet are moving before she’s told them they can, is pulling off her shirt and slipping into bed beside Serena. Something in Blair’s chest is aching so, so much, too much for her ribcage to hold, but she lets Serena cling like she’s drowning anyway, like Blair’s the one that’s beautiful and perfect and _needed_ , and Blair wishes she could let go of this, only not really.

Not really.


End file.
